Potternomics 101
by Atrile
Summary: Schooled in the Vernon Dursley school of money-grubbing, Harry takes a woefully unprepared Wizarding Britain by storm. Capitalism, ho!
1. Competitive Advantage

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 _Author's Note: If you enjoyed the story, please leave a review and let me know what you think._

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Prior knowledge of economics is neither required nor expected to read (and enjoy) this story.

" _Sometimes freedom from normal rules is what gives you competitive advantage."_

\- Reid Hoffman

You see, Vernon loved money more than anything else in the world. He hated poor people because they had less money than him. He hated rich people because they had more money than him. And above all, he hated being poor. So when he discovered something unnatural about his nephew, he paid no attention to that small part of his brain which cried 'freak' and 'unnatural', because a portly old man with a moustache and a top hat on his shoulder told him otherwise.

Was a Rolls-Ross unnatural? Or how about a mansion, and a private driver, and a maid, and a butler too? Or maybe even a private plane. Yes, he could see it now. Sir Vernon Dursley, charitable billionaire extraordinaire and self-made man. No, it was merely _different_ , and anyone who thought otherwise was simply too poor to understand better. He almost pitied them, because he'd been in their shoes once.

Now, though, he had the keys to untold fortunes in his hand. A unique _competitive advantage_ that no one else could replicate.

So he'd brought the boy to a casino, to see if he could magic up some tricks. After all, wasn't that what magicians did? Abracadabra, and hocus pocus, and the cards changed? Bah! They wouldn't let the boy in, because he was 'too young'. What a sham! They were probably intimidated by his well-built figure and intimidating presence, afraid they'd lose money (and they'd be right).

He thought about it some more, and then brought the boy to his business meetings. Not to a meeting room, of course, but always at restaurants (on the company dime), and waived away the boy's presence - _my nephew, you know, his parents passed away and there's no one left at home to look after him today_. He didn't know how it worked, but after a few beatings and the promise of juicy steak and ice cream desserts, the boy could tell if they were lying, more often than not. It wasn't perfect, but it worked most of the time, and that was enough to give him some big wins at work.

It was only a couple years before his boss called him in and offered him to the chance to buy in as an equity partner in Grunnings. _Great sales! You've really stepped it up. Pulling in major clients! Landing great deals!_

He'd told them no. And then he'd left.

They made drills. Why would he want to put money in that? No, the drill bit business wasn't great. There was too much competition, both domestically and from overseas. Especially the Americans and Germans, they'd forced Grunnings out of their markets. It was only his efforts alone that had enabled them to establish a tiny foothold overseas. There were even talks of tariffs on the horizon!

The profit margins were high on low-volume drill bits, and low on high-volume drill bits. At one point, business had even been so bad they had been forced to retool their production line, and then eventually outsource it to China. Now, even that was getting expensive, and the board was debating whether to move to Vietnam or Thailand, or so he'd heard.

However, he had a secret weapon. A competitive edge that nobody else knew about. A human lie detector, and in time, maybe more.

And so, he started selling knives.

That hadn't been the plan, but one of his company's old clients had gone bankrupt, and there had been leftover inventory - tens of thousands of knives. Nobody had wanted it, so he had picked it up on sale. Turns out, nobody wanted it for a reason. There wasn't any demand for knives at the moment!

Left with a massive warehouse of knives (and the ongoing cost of paying for the rent and storage fees), he'd pulled the boy out and tried selling them to individuals instead. And surprisingly, he'd manage to scam a bunch into taking them off his hands. Who would have thought that having a human lie detector also made it easier to tell lies of your own and scam people?

But the joke was on him, because one of those people turned around and sold those very same knives he'd sold for a healthy profit. However, let it not be said that anybody ever took advantage of Vernon Dursley!

A eureka moment had struck him. He wasn't going to get rich selling those knives. He'd been selling drills for years, and where did that leave him? Middle class. No, what he should do was sell those knives to other people for _them_ to sell, and if they did the same, they'd have to pay him a small commission. It was only fair, right?

He was familiar with commissions. When he was at Grunnings, most of his income came from commissions. As the most successful salesman there, he'd earn a cut of a very large amount of sales, which had allowed him to bring home more money than his boss. But not enough to buy a Rolls Royce, or even a private plane.

But what if the commission money came flowing to him from all directions, like a tree with its branches spreading outwards?

The next few months proved that it was a brilliant idea. He'd sold his knives here and there, and those people had in turn sold the same knives onward, and so on and so forth. And every time a transaction had occurred, a small cut of that money would go back to him!

A few more years of this, and the boy began to show other tricks. Setting things on fire, changing their color, and so on. Little things, but used right ... they could go a long way.

And so, he'd started playing up the theatrics. Dressing in very expensive suits, wearing a Rolox, driving around a Rolls-Ross (the private plane was still out of his reach!), and using some of the boy's tricks in their gatherings, when thousands of knife sellers would come and listen to how he'd become successful (off them, of course!). But it wasn't a scam - they could do the same, if they worked hard enough. They became even more enthusiastic, and soon he was appearing on TV programs, and advertisements, and the like.

Life was good. Business was going international, and he was expanding into retail, jewelry, and real estate. There were even plans for a hotel in the works, and he'd slap his name on it. The 'DURSLEY' brand brought fame and recognition anywhere he went.

And then one day, a letter arrived.


	2. Division of Labor

" _The division of labour, however, so far as it can be introduced, occasions, in every art, a proportionable increase of the productive powers of labour_."

\- Adam Smith, The Wealth of Nations

Hagrid beamed, enjoying the stunned look in his young charge's face. His Muggle uncle, on the other hand, wasn't so pleasant to get along with, but he wouldn't let that bother him!

Young Harry had so many questions, just like his mother, that one!

He was having a little bit of trouble answering 'em though.

Mass production? Industrialization? Never 'eard of 'em!

That's right, all the potions were made by hand.

A hand-made wand that you bought for life? Only seven galleons!

"Uncle," the boy turned around slowly, "did you hear that right? They actually send things via _owl_. I thought they were just being fancy with the first letter."

The man shook his head, "Boy, that's not the real issue. Did you hear that they make the cauldrons by hand? And they're made from _pewter_? I reckon we could buy out a small production line and do stainless steel dirt cheap. Lighter, too. We'll cost control and make these shops go bust!"

At the thought of driving another business into bankruptcy, Vernon began to guffaw loudly, causing passersby to shoot annoyed glances at him.

Harry rolled his eyes. When his uncle got in this mood, nobody could stop him.

"Uncle, don't forget they sell other types. Brass and copper, and even silver. I see flasks and other types of goods too," he pointed out, as he always did, because Vernon would miss some fine details when he got too excited.

"That's no problem, boy. We only need two models. Brass? Copper? Doesn't matter. We've got stainless steel, dirt cheap. Light, durable, and easy to clean. And for those with bigger pockets, we can do silver. I know someone who can source that from Bolivia at a decent price. We just need to market it right, make it look high end. It's all about the branding, you know. For the rest, I think we can go with laboratory equipment – test tubes, flasks, and the like. I'll look for a supplier, we just need to stick our logo on those, and they're good to go."

Harry offered a silent prayer to the cozy little cauldron shop (family-owned, he noted).

As Vernon continued gleefully pointing out all the ways they could destroy people's livelihoods (with Hagrid feeling somewhat lost in the conversation, but happy that the Muggle was taking more interest in the Wizarding World and asking questions), they soon arrived at a large building.

'GRINGOTTS BANK', it read.

o - o - o

As he walked into his vault, the goblin sneered arrogantly, expecting to see a sense of wonderment and shock on the wizard's face. The Potter trust vault had a mountain of Galleons, and it was a small fortune for anybody his age. However, things did not occur as he expected.

There was indeed shock on his face. But it was one of horror, as if he had been told that his pet Kneazle had passed away.

And then the boy adopted a hopeful look, nodding thoughtfully, "these are antique coins, aren't they? I have to say, don't you receive any complaints about how poorly they're stored?"

The goblin shook his head in disappointment. The only thing worse than wizards were Muggles, with their idiotic questions and bizarre notions.

"Mister Potter, those are Galleons. You can use them to buy things."

Harry staggered back in shock, clutching his chest.

"But ... it's just _there_! How are you going to loan it out?"

The goblin shook his head, looking at Harry as if he were stupid.

"Loan it out? Gringotts prides itself on keeping money on behalf of others, and certainly doesn't give it out! If you need a private loan, I can put you in contact with several goblins."

"You mean the money just sits in the vault? This isn't a bank, it's an underground warehouse!" exclaimed Harry in disbelief. Tears had begun to stream down his face, his worldview crashing down. Next thing you'd know, they would start _charging_ customers to hold their money.

Wait a moment ...

"How does Gringotts actually make money?" he asked, hesitantly.

"That is a closely guarded secret," replied the goblin curtly.

No, how I mean does Gringotts _earn_ money?"

Griphook stood straight with pride, announcing, "Gringotts charges vault maintenance fees commensurate with the level of security. We also offer treasure hun-"

He trailed off as he noticed the wizard had fallen to the floor, and was twitching as if he had a bad potions reaction.

So not only were they not paying him interest, they were charging him for the privilege of loaning them money! And they were too stupid to loan it out and earn interest on it themselves! No wonder they didn't pay any interest!

Harry cleared his throat.

"I'd like to close my account."

A devilish smirk took over the goblin's face, and he replied, "Unfortunately, Mister Potter, you don't have access to the main Potter family account until you come of age."

A dark expression crossed Harry's face, and he vowed to himself that one day, he would drive this bank out of business. If there was one thing he'd learned from his uncle, if people tried to screw you over, you'd pay them back double!

And while carrying the coins, he'd noted that the Galleons were made of pure gold … and they were only worth five pounds each? He was going to make a fortune!

Busy plotting his revenge, he'd returned to the bank lobby to see his uncle beside a man with long, platinum hair and a silver cane that screamed old money, while Hagrid stood awkwardly to the side.

"It's clear to me, that a _Muggle_ like you couldn't afford it, not with clothes like _that_ ," the man sneered.

Harry shook his head in pity. When it came to flaunting, nobody surpassed Uncle Vernon. This was already over before it started.

"That's _Sir_ Vernon Dursley to you, Mister Mouthful, thank you very much. I've _always_ tried to remain humble, being self-made and not inheriting my wealth like others, but I do indulge _occasionally_. Like this suit here, which ran me over twenty thousand pounds. And at least another thirty for this whole outfit," boasted Vernon, making sure to flash the Rolox on his meaty wrist in a not-so-subtle manner.

Harry noticed that Uncle Vernon glanced down at his clothes anyway, and knew that he would be booking an appointment with a high-end bespoke tailor to update his style, as he always did whenever someone made a snide comment on his sense of fashion. 'A modern, trendy cut', they always assured him.

"That's _Lord Mal-foy_ to you! _I_ care little for some _Muggle_ title. And fifty … thousand … pounds," he swallowed notably, having just done the pound-galleon conversion in his head. That was a _lot_ for a set of clothing. Even dragon-hide and Acromantula silk didn't cost that much! It'd cost him about that much to outfit the whole Slytherin team with the upcoming Nimbus 2001 next year, and that didn't leave him with a whole lot of spare Galleons after paying off Cornelius, buying Narcissa some new jewelry, and all the other expenses that came with being well-connected and influential. "That's not _that_ much," he lied dismissively, silently promising to find a more expensive supplier for his clothing. Maybe Manticore hide would do the trick? He'd have to find the money somewhere …

"Why, the Malfoy Manor, with countless generations of history – we date back to William the Conqueror, you know – is easily worth a few million Galleons," continued Malfoy.

His Uncle turned to him, and anticipating the request, Harry helpfully explained, "It's one to five, Sir."

And then Vernon chortled in an incredibly annoying fashion, leaving Malfoy furious and looking to teach this fat Muggle a lesson! The goblins standing guard quickly made him reconsider though.

The beefy man explained in a condescending tone, "After a thousand years of history, all you've got left to show is a shabby, run-down house and some land. Me, on the other hand? Just bought a new estate in an upscale neighborhood, it cost me over 30 million pounds, and that's not including all the renovation I had done afterwards. Looks like we're not at the same level, hm?"

Gritting his teeth, Malfoy stormed off with his trademark sneers, leaving Vernon happily chortling as he one-upped yet another poor sod with his superior wealth and success.

And speaking of clothes, it was time for him to get some 'Wizarding' ones. Hagrid had begged off to the pub to get drunk, no doubt tired of Vernon's antics, as they always did. Or maybe he'd been driven away by the thought of Malfoy, who clearly looked down on the poor (perfectly understandable, thought Harry), and Hagrid clearly fit in that category.

Soon they arrived at a store which called itself ' _Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occassions._ '

Robes? Oh no. These people wore _robes_?

He frowned, looking down at his tailored suit – a fine blend of cashmere and high-quality merino wool – with the sinking feeling that he'd be forced to downgrade.

Harry was a simple man, content with simple pleasures and not one to drown in luxuries like his uncle, but he'd gotten used to dressing nicely, and draping a carpet over his shoulders was a bit too much of a downgrade, even for him.

A minute later, he discovered that this shop, like many others in Diagon Alley, also turned out to be family-owned, when the proprietor arrived to take care of him. _Terrible service, he noted. What kind of clothing store would ignore a customer for so long? It was common sense that you sent over a sales associate to greet your customers, to flatter and compliment their looks while upselling your products and draining every shilling from their wallet!_ Vernon had let him watch then, when they had opened some new jewelry and high-end clothing stores under the 'DURSLEY' brand.

And on top of that, he'd noticed that none of the clothes in the shop had logos! How could you sell clothing without a brand? Perhaps Vernon would start selling some 'DURSLEY' clothing to the wizards …

He gave another silent prayer, because his Uncle would no doubt drive poor Malkin's out of business, the way Tesca had sunk many small mom-and-pop stores.

But that was the nature of business, after all. Adapt or die. And from what he could tell, Diagon Alley hadn't adapted for centuries. Change was on the horizon, and nobody could escape the reach of the invisible hand, not even wizards.

In the back of the shop, a boy with a pale face, and the same platinum hair as 'Lord' Malfoy from earlier, sat on a stool. Harry suspected he was related.

"Hullo," said the boy, "Hogwarts too?"

After some polite conversation, the boy asked if he had a broom!

On second thought, perhaps the boy wasn't related to Malfoy, after all. No self-respecting scion to a fortune would buy a _broom_ to clean. No, that was what servants were for. Your time was more valuable than that.

Or perhaps his family sold brooms? Yes, he had to give people the benefit of the doubt. There was nothing wrong with selling cleaning equipment, as long as it made you money. Uniloafer also sold laundry products, and they had a multibillion operation going on.

And then the blonde explained that wizards played sports on racing brooms. Harry turned out the rest of the conversation, thinking of all the profit potential there. Sports betting was a huge money maker. Fantasy sport leagues were picking up in popularity across the pond too, and these wizards seemed real fanatic about people flying about on brooms and chucking balls at each other. They liked card collecting too, with those 'chocolate frogs', so maybe he could sign a deal and produce collectible Quidditch player cards. Oh yes, this was going to be brilliant…

When they had finished purchasing everything Harry needed, the sun was already beginning to set. Hagrid had to return to Hogwarts for 'groundskeeping' – wait, had the school really just sent their gardener to pick him up?

Fortunately, they didn't need to take the Underground back, with a private car. When you were poor, people called you 'strange'. But when you had money, that upgraded to 'eccentric', and it's not like you needed to care about what they thought anymore. Who said money couldn't buy happiness?

In any case, the only person who would see the eclectic mix of magical supplies and ingredients was their driver, and he was paid well enough to shut up and ignore any oddities.

As they made their way home, Harry closed his eyes, exhausted from the day, and began to dream of building his own business empire …


End file.
